Red and Black
by yuffiehighwind
Summary: Jefferson was rough with her every time, until one day he wasn't. Regina didn't ask him to be gentle, he just was, kissing her bare shoulder and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He murmured something foolish into her hair she couldn't remember years later, but knew had probably made her laugh. Jefferson/Regina.


_This was for a prompt over on Tumblr: Mad Queen, "What makes you beautiful?"_

* * *

**Red and Black**

_What makes you beautiful, Regina?_

The movement of the bones beneath the skin of your hands.

The subtle rise and fall of your chest when you breathe, sleeping.

Your spine, and the small of your back.

The dip behind your knee, and the scar on your upper lip.

Your still-damp hair after a rainstorm.

The violet hue that surrounds you when you perform magic.

Your parted lips when you're close, not-quite, almost there.

Your passionate (and disturbing) revenge fantasies.

The heat of your palm over my heart, and that split second you consider, then dismiss, killing me.

That flicker of doubt that crosses your face when I tell you how lovely you are.

The kindness you harbor for children (who aren't Snow) when we're not looking.

That mischievous smile you share with Rumplestiltskin when he teaches you a new deadly trick.

Your naiveté, thinking you can ever trust him, or he would ever care about you like I do.

* * *

Jefferson was rough with her every time, until one day he wasn't. Regina didn't ask him to be gentle, he just was, kissing her bare shoulder and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He murmured something foolish into her hair she couldn't remember years later, but knew had probably made her laugh.

He was handsome when he smiled, and handsomer when it wasn't fake. Regina had been drawn to him when he was cruel to her, and became addicted when he was kind.

The few times they talked after sex, or slept in the same bed, the man let his guard down and looked smaller. Humbler. He spoke to her frankly, like a friend. He didn't pity her or fear her. He was like Rumplestiltskin in many ways, but without the countless secrets or ulterior motives. He was comfortable in his own skin.

Regina felt the need to strip away all of Jefferson's exaggerations, half-truths, and outright lies. It was one of the reasons she liked watching his face during sex. It wasn't about conquest or control in the beginning. She just wanted to know the man in her arms was real.

Regina didn't think of Jefferson as beautiful until she saw him perform magic. They had something in common then, even if his wasn't natural. Even if it was something given to him (like her mother's spell book), or stolen by him (like everything else).

She didn't see him pluck an object from across time and space until decades later, in her Storybrooke vault. The thoughts returned with the apple in his grip. Jefferson was beautiful, and his magic was astonishing. Magnificent. Unique.

Hers.

* * *

_What makes you beautiful, Jefferson?_

The tips of your fingers when they slowly turn the Hat - as if it were as delicate as glass - the days you don't fling it like a discus, which you do when you're hurried (or want to make a stylish exit).

The bend of your knees when you prepare to jump.

Your open palms when you fall through the floor, and your closed eyes when you take us back to the surface. I can see you disappear in pieces - feet, torso, head - when I dare to look down.

You're beautiful when you gently rub my shoulder blades and comb my hair with your fingers, looking at me like my soul is still worth saving.

The hair, the swagger, and the sardonic smirk make you ugly, because they remind me of Rumplestiltskin. You're beautiful when you defy him, when the Hat is on your head out of his reach. When you grab my wrists if I try to touch the brim, like it's sacred. Red satin and fraying black velvet.

The Hat's battered leather case is beautiful, because it's stitched together with expert care out of patches and scraps. Sometimes you appear before me in fragments, coalescing in the violet smoke of your ancient magic. An arm, a leg, a hand holding a hat. It dissipates and there you are, forcing a charming smile. You don't bow to me. You never bow. I curtsy years later because I'm facing an equal. (Lucky you.)

Decades later your hatred is beautiful, because your sorrow is ugly. I will seek revenge, then regret seeing you so shattered. I will fail to consider the man sharing your brain would drive you crazy. I fail to predict how much Wonderland scars you too.

Your innocence is beautiful, because you hide it. You think theft is a sin, which is why you love the rush. You cringe when I commit murder, and that is beautiful too, because I used to be like that, and I miss my young self terribly.


End file.
